Cold Grey Eyes
by Complicated-little-Jellie
Summary: About Alex and his hatred for Blunt. Includes other characters. A 3 shot!
1. Cold, Hateful Eyes

How could this man just walk away?

After everything he had done; after everything he had put him through.

"You!" Alex roared, lurching with a forward's momentum, clenching his fists for the fight. He had never wanted to hurt somebody so badly. He had never wanted to _kill _anybody so badly.

There was no doubt about the fact that he would have done so, had it not been for the person who leapt forward to restrain him from behind, a large hand on both of Alex's slim yet muscular arms, trapping the teen. Alex struggled: he had never struggled so much in his life. He didn't even coordinate his response into the martial art he had been learning most of his life; his brain refused to exert any control over the flood of seething anger pulsing round his quivering frame.

But the man wouldn't let go of him: he had to be bigger and stronger than Alex was. Of course, he knew who they were; he knew where he had been forced to be. Vaguely, Alex noticed the man blocking his view of the retreating figure in a suit, speaking to him in a calm voice; trying to calm him down.

How could he calm down?

His life was bloody tatters; 14 years wasted for nothing. He'd lost his family and his childhood to this business; in the end, it would take his life. And yet these men thought that he should calm down?

Had they never wanted to kill somebody this badly?

Why not?

Tears streaming down his red cheek, undignified, raw emotion. He should probably care that he was breaking down in front of two SAS soldiers; in front of his new _team. _He should definitely care.

Why didn't he care?

Maybe because the man currently climbing into his helicopter to leave had ruined him, and was now preventing anybody from being able to stitch him back together.

A glance was spared, and even across the distance, those cold, grey eyes bore into his. It made his soul feel empty and sparse. Because of his tears, everything was blurry, with the exception of those two hateful pinpoints.

Over Snake's shoulder, he thought he saw a smirk from the bearer of those cold orbs.

Those cold hateful eyes.

The man disappeared from view, into the machine that would take him back to London and civilisation. It was at this point that Alex realised he wasn't breathing properly, hyperventilating, uneven gasps floundering for the air he'd completely forgotten about.

His world starting tilting, black spots camouflaging the copter as it took off.

He couldn't breathe anymore …

Alex Rider fell back into the arms of Eagle, unconscious.

"What the hell was that about?"


	2. Slime

Alex stared at the ripples of the oak desk, eyes tracing the curl of the telephone line; the stark corners of the brand etched onto the laptop's back. His gaze jumped to the windowpane; the heads bobbing as thousands trampled along the concrete jungle for their mundane, simple lives.

Anything not to stare at the slime sitting upright before him. Some called them therapists, some called them psychiatrists, some even shrinks. His terminology for the things was far more elaborate, and far more inappropriate.

But, he would settle for slimy douche-bags. This was because, in complete honestly, this was all they were. They pried into other people's fears and problems, tearing open invisible wounds and charged a lot of money to sit there, patronisingly watching them break down. All for nothing.

"Alex."

His brows orbs wandered down to his shoe.

"Alex."

Perhaps the ceiling needed another examination.

"Alex."

The mustard green of the plain wallpaper, needed studying.

The teen counted to three, waiting …

"Alex; don't make me send somebody in here to make you look at me." The nasal voice threatened, words poison to even the matured ears of Alex.

The spy spared him a glance.

Patronisingly, the man smiled; "That's better, Alex. Now, I'm going to hold up some cards, and I'd like you to tell me what you can see. Do you understand?"

_No, _Alex thought sarcastically, _could you reiterate? I seem to have forgotten my brain this morning. _He nodded externally, dearly wishing he had his gun. Being MI6, he'd been searched at the entrance.

"Okay, Alex; say the first thing that comes into your mind."

The psychiatrist began to hold up his cards, with his patient staring blankly at the ink splotches displayed.

"A grey man."

"A hateful man."

"A cruel man."

"A murderer."

Dearly regretting the flinch he did at the last picture, he numbly murmured: "Grey eyes."

It had been a trick from the very beginning; Alex could almost picture the dry hiccups that he supposed would resemble laughs for the head of MI6, watching his toy suffer like this.

Oh, how Alex Rider wanted to kill that man.


	3. The Funeral of Alan Blunt

'_**Kay guys, this is the 3**__**rd**__** and final slice of my 3 shot story Cold Grey Eyes. Thanks for reading and don't forget to review in the pretty little box below!**_

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><p>His first thought was how surprised he was by the amount of people who had bothered to attend the funeral. For such a bitter, poisonous man, there sure was a hell of a lot of people who wanted to show respect. That or they'd been paid to go, because he couldn't see how else the man had gathered such a crowd in his death. And there'd be more later, no doubt. Later when there would be a memorial parade performed by the armed forces, including the SAS, to show respect to the man. Like he deserved that much.<p>

It was warm in a church for February. As a vicar droned on about the sacrifices and victories of a young Alan Blunt, Alex was disgusted. 'Sacrificed so much for the benefit of the people, to save the lives of the helpless and defenceless. Of the children.' Pah. Bull.

Alex couldn't bear to sit on the hard wooden pew, in between Ben Daniels and Mrs Jones, the new head of MI6, and listen to an old man who had never met Blunt talk about how brave he was; it was garbage to his ears.

Whatever he had done in his twenties and thirties seemed nothing to Alex. He had achieved much more at the age of 14 than Blunt had done himself in a lifetime. Sitting behind a desk and ordering people to their deaths was hardly something to be applauded about, especially when the man used children, like him. Sure, he'd put his life on the line at one point, but what was that worth when 30 years later endangering a teenager was his best achievement?

If anyone were to ask what Alex was doing there, the only child at the funeral, he had been ordered to say that he was Blunt's nephew. Like hell was he going to say that. He'd rather just reveal who the man was to the world. Maybe he should stand up and tell them of the late man treacheries.

But could he? Only a few seats away a woman sat crying, the arms of who he supposed was her husband around her. Her eyes were a pallid grey. She could be one of two things; his sister or his daughter. Either way, could he really be an Alan Blunt and hide the truth? But at the same time, could he be the one to kill their pictures of their loved one, at his own funeral? Really?

After all that had been murdered in cold blood, why should it even be a decision? This man they loved had shredded his life and laughed as it burnt to embers.

The answer was clear as day, through the murk of his own consciousness.

It was because his eyes were brown. Soft and warm and safe. They weren't the bitter grey of Alan Blunts. Now this man was dead there may be possibilities. He was free.

Because he wasn't the cold, bitter man with the cold, grey eyes. He was Alex Rider.

And he was free.


End file.
